


Connection

by Ferrenbach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Communication, Friendship, Gen, Language, Memories, Phase Four (Gorillaz)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-06 09:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrenbach/pseuds/Ferrenbach
Summary: The Grim Reaper took Del long ago, but Russel can still hear him in the back of his mind, colouring his thoughts, and helping him muddle through life. However, this only creates an echo chamber and even the ghost of the ghost of Del feels it might be time for Russel to strengthen his ties with living, breathing individuals.





	Connection

_Fucking bullshit, man. That’s what this is._

“Too fuckin’ right,” Russel murmured to himself as he squatted down to rummage beneath the sink for his spray bottle. One of them anyway. No matter how many times he told his bandmates to leave the damned things out, they were always hidden away when he needed them most. He couldn’t tell if it was Noodle trying to keep the place tidy, 2-D unthinkingly stashing them somewhere in the midst of his chores, Murdoc just straight up hiding them on purpose – an act he would not put past the fucking bastard – or a little bit from columns A, B, and C.

He sometimes found them simply tucked into a cupboard – those he put down to Noodle – some squirrelled away in bizarre places – those were 2-D all over – but some seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth and he would bet real money that Murdoc had chucked those ones because that was just the kind of assholery in which he would engage. It was certain they would never bother using them because none of Russel’s bandmates really understood what they were for and he doubted that they believed him when he told them, but at least Noodle and 2-D respected him enough to keep them around, even if they insisted on hiding them behind closed doors.

Murdoc just liked to antagonize him. Murdoc was a dick that way.

Russel gave up searching under the sink and decided to fix himself a drink while contemplating whether there was another bottle somewhere in the house or whether he would have to prepare a new one. He opened the fridge to find the spray bottle tucked in beside the orange juice.

“What the fuck, D,” he murmured to himself, grabbing both the spray bottle and a cola, mixing the latter with rum as he wondered what the Hell was wrong with the boy. Then Russel reminded himself that 2-D was not a boy and he knew very well what the Hell was wrong with him.

_Don’t be that way. D’s all right. You complain that people don’t see the shit you see, but never think that maybe you don’t see the things they do._

“No one asked you.”

_Why shouldn’t your ghost chillin’ sauce be chilled?_

Russel could almost hear the laughter and smiled in spite of himself.

The thought was his own and he heard it in his own voice, but it came from a place on the periphery of himself, a place touched by others, shaped by their thoughts, their words, their personalities.

Del would have been so proud of himself over that one.

Russel took a sip of his drink and, armed with liquid courage in one hand and his spray bottle in the other, went forth to confront the hall closet.

Dark tendrils oozed from the crack beneath the door, the thin spaces around its frame. They were black towards their centre, becoming indigo further out, and glowing ultraviolet at their extremities, their edges invisible even to his eye.

Russel was the only one who could see them. He figured it was his connection to the supernatural that allowed him to perceive things that others could not. Perceive them visually, in any event. He highly suspected that the tendrils might be felt by anyone who passed too closely by them. Emotionally, not physically. He would not go so far as to blame them for 2-D mood swings, Noodle’s anger issues, or Murdoc’s… everything, but he would not put it past them to intensify these things. As such, he felt it his duty to deal with the slithering appendages as long as the band decided to live in the house.

Putting his drink down on the hall table, Russel wrenched the closet open and doused the interior with rosemary and sage infused salt water, not daring to look directly at its contents. The air vibrated with a sound like a million cicadas burring in unison and the tendrils withdrew.

He often felt the result should be more dramatic, with screaming and thrashing and smoke. He thought it might be more satisfying, as though he were actively accomplishing something, but part of him was happy to endure as little excitement as possible. After all, even if the damned things had put on a show before slinking away, there would be no one to see it but him.

_You and everyone else sharing their plane of existence._

“My mistake,” Russel snorted. He spun the spray bottle on his finger like a six-shooter and hooked it into his belt to imagined applause.

_Smooth moves there, Russ. Watch you don’t drop your drawers by accident._

“Fuck you, man,” Russel murmured, picking up his drink, taking a slug, and ambling back toward the kitchen. He paused a moment to open the intradimensional cubby as he passed and spritz the tentacles for good measure. The water mixture didn’t do much more than give them an itch, but he felt it important to remind them who was boss. Otherwise they might try to feel up another guest and that could lead to all kinds of awkward scenarios.

The tentacles withdrew with a gargled noise that sounded like “jelly babies”. Russel reminded himself to tell Noodle to stop feeding the damed things. Unlike the tendrils, the tentacles could be seen by anyone and Noodle had taken to throwing candy at them in exchange for twisting into shapes that spelled out vulgar words in kanji. They were a hit at parties.

Back in the kitchen, Russel parked his spray bottle on the counter within easy reach and tidied up a few items left lying around. A dirty glass, a dirty dish towel, a dirty magazine...

_You can buy a haunted house, but you can’t buy class._

“You know it.”

For a moment, Russel felt strange and alien. Murdoc couldn’t have picked up that magazine without thumbing through it and making crude jokes or serving up some anecdote about past encounters, not even to throw it in the trash. 2-D would have thumbed through it also, slightly flushed, but unselfconscious about doing so, even with the rest of them in the room. Noodle would have opened it at random, spouting comments about the commodifying nature of the media mixed with slight nibbles to her lower lip in appreciation of its artistry.

Russel could not have cared less about the thing and tossed it with barely a glance.

And it was not because it was full of women either. He had looked through publications aimed at gay men as well and felt about the same level of disinterest.

_Look, man, just ‘cause porn exists, doesn’t mean you gotta_ like _it. Some people prefer substance over style. There’s no shame in wanting something real over a fantasy. You like music, stick to that. Music’s real. It speaks to the soul. Just hang with us and keep makin’ music. The rest’ll sort itself out._

Real words, in a real voice. A real memory. It felt like a lifetime ago.

It damned near was, Russel realized.

He took his drink out to the back garden and eased himself down on the step. In a far corner, 2-D futzed with the rose bush.

The thing had been dead when they’d moved in. Russel would have sworn to it. Thorny sticks poking out the ground and nothing more. 2-D had looked at it, run his fingers carefully over it, and declared it sad.

“Bloody well right it’s sad,” Murdoc had said. “It’s a right disgrace. Rip it up and chuck it.”

“No, not like that,” 2-D had replied, distracted by his own thoughts. “I’s not happy. It needs to be cheered up.”

Murdoc had gone off on that, ranting about how plants did not have feelings and what did 2-D know about it anyway? 2-D flinched a little at some of the more familiar names that Murdoc called him, but otherwise generally ignored him and returned home one day with sacking that he wrapped around the bush, tying it up before he began to dig at the roots.

Russel thought he had changed his mind and was going to rip it out as Murdoc commanded, but 2-D had cut away a generous amount of dirt to protect the roots, exposing them only when he wormed his fingers in between them to check them, and then set the tree aside and performed strange alchemy in the hole he had dug with fresh soil and the contents of various containers that Russel had never had a chance to read. 2-D had replanted the bush firmly, mulched the base, untied it, and pruned it back some. He had tended it semi-regularly, checking that it was sufficiently watered, adding some fertilizer now and then, but mostly letting it get on with things.

And damned if it didn’t work.

There were no roses on it – 2-D had said there probably wouldn’t be until next year due to its late start – but the bush was full and green and an ongoing annoyance to Murdoc, who would probably rip it out himself if he could, but knew he would incur the wrath of Noodle if he did. Russel thought he might come down on Murdoc too, just on principle, even though a rose bush wasn’t really worth getting excited over and the way 2-D managed to bring dead things back to life gave him the willies.

Broken keyboards, reclaimed furniture, rose bushes… practically his own damned self.

2-D stepped back to admire his handiwork and fished a cigarette out of his back pocket. Shirtless, in a pair of old jeans and worn boots, a cigarette wedged into the corner of his mouth, he looked almost normal.

_There you go again._

Normal as in not in a band, Russel countered, keeping the running commentary in his head now that there were others about. God knows none of us are _normal_.

_You, me, and all the things that never were._

It should have been his own thought, in his own voice, but, for a moment, it sounded so much like Del that Russel wondered if he was getting radio waves across the planes from some kind of alternate universe in which the Grim Reaper had never come by to collect. And then 2-D, on the outer edge of his vision, squatted down near one of the other flower beds, head cocked slightly as though he had just heard something, and Russel realized that it was 2-D, not him, coming in clear across the timelines.

Right then, Russel knew he was no longer looking at 2-D, but Stuart Pot, that weird tilt attuned to the arrival of a child that didn't exist. Stuart Pot, who had never had an accident beyond the childhood one that turned his hair blue. Who partnered with his father and ran a small shop for extra cash on the side – small appliance and electronic repair, musical instruments a specialty. Who’d married, not Paula – whom he had crushed on, but had not dated without his frontman status to offer her – but a childhood friend with whom he had reconnected, found he still had much in common with, and come to love. Who’d had a son… No. A daughter. Deadly smart and a wicked pianist, for whom he’d Frankensteined keyboards that made eldritch sounds no one else could duplicate.

The moment rang so clear that Russel panicked when 2-D stood up, brushing his hands on his legs, and willed him not to turn around. If 2-D’s eyes were clear, Russel thought he might lose his mind.

And then the moment passed as 2-D turned and grinned at him, eyes blood-dark and bruisey as ever.

“Hello, Russ,” 2-D said, ambling over to park himself on the step beside him.

“Hey, man,” Russel returned, having not much else to say. Mentioning you’d seen someone’s alternate self was no way to open a conversation.

Russel smoked from time to time, but someone else’s smoke was a bitch and 2-D acknowledged this by keeping his cigarette downwind of them and blowing smoke off to the side. There was something odd about the action and it took a moment for Russel to realize that 2-D was relaxed and at ease. He moved fluidly, not furtively, looking every minute of his age, but not a moment more. Crows feet had settled in and worry lines had deepened, but his face was still soft and boyish, his body lean, but not _too_ skinny. Not anymore.

Whatever he had been before, he was 2-D, now. 2-D after the spotlights came on and the initial stage fright passed. When the audience had shouted its love for him and he was willing to return it. When he felt he had a place to belong.

It wasn’t a stage, only the garden, but 2-D wore it just as well. Perhaps better. It had fewer people to please.

“All your herbs are really nice,” 2-D told him, unselfconsciously scratching his belly before picking a leaf from the leg of his jeans. He smelled of earth and sweat. “I had to move some from where you planted ‘em. They din’t like it. I din’t leave the section empty though. I put a different kind in. One that likes more sun. They dun all like sun. It makes ‘em tired an’ angry.”

Russel had never encountered an angry plant in his life, but thought it best not to say so.

“You got some in by Noodle’s stoop, too.”

2-D grinned. “Yeah, she wanted some. I hope i’s a’right. I din’t know if you had a special plan for ‘em when you put ‘em in. I thought for cooking maybe, but you scattered ‘em around. I only moved the ones that were sad and wouldn’t grow. I thought you’d like it better if they were happy in a new place, rather than sulky where you put ‘em. I can move ‘em back if you like.”

“That’s fine, D,” Russel told him and supposed it didn’t make a difference. Some of the plants he chose could be used for cooking, but their true purpose was for protection. Herbs soothing to the soul and to wandering spirits. The rosemary and sage he used in his salt water. Basil and aloe. Parsley and mint.

There had been no rhyme or reason to the beds when he’d first planted them. His main concern had been mixing them up and spreading them out to get good coverage. If 2-D wanted to move them around to help them grow, Russel supposed there was nothing wrong with that, as long as the mint stayed in baskets and elevated pots. It tended to be aggressive and he would rather it not wipe out the rest of the garden.

Maybe it was the mint that got angry.

2-D had never struck Russel as a gardener, but he had been happy to lend a hand with the initial planting and had more or less taken over the task of tending the beds. He was haphazard in his duties, but helped and supported by Noodle, and the plants seemed to like him.

Now I’m doing it, Russel thought. For reasons he could not fathom, the way 2-D talked about and to the clusters of plants grated on his nerves.

“Good. That means Noodle’s can stay too. I din’t want to mess your plans, but she likes to sit out and smell the rosemary and stuff. I like the lavender,” 2-D said, almost shyly, as though the admission were an embarrassment. “I’s always friendly.”

“It’s meant to be calming,” Russel told him. It probably reminds you of your mother.

The vehemence of the thought startled even Russel and he was taken immediately to task.

_Is that a problem? Is he less of a man for having a good relationship with his mother just ‘cause you resent yours sending you away?_

That isn’t how it was, Russel thought. She was worried. It was for my protection.

_That’s not what you think late at night._

They were his thoughts and should have been in his voice, but he and Del had had the same conversation enough times after his arrival in England that he pulled the responses from memory.

_Your folks’ hearts are in the right place, but that don’t mean it’s the right choice. It’s okay to be mad, man. That’s life. Just make sure you know_ why _you’re mad and don’t dump your shit where it don’t belong._

Russel only half-listened to 2-D ramble on about the lavender’s soft voice and how Noodle preferred the spicy scent of the marigolds.

“I like marigolds too. They’re happy and laugh a lot,” 2-D said, finishing his cigarette and grinding it out against the step. He tossed the butt in a tin put outside for that purpose. “I helped Noodle put in a bunch around her stoop, but we had to take them out and put in catmint instead ‘cause Katsu didn’t like ‘em.”

“Did he rip them up?” Russel said to show that he was listening. “Use them for a dirt box?”

“Nah.”

“Then how'd you know he didn’t like them?”

“He told me.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, D,” Russel huffed, tired of trying to decipher his bandmate’s fairytale world. “He’s a cat! He doesn’t speak!”

The change in 2-D was so sudden that Russel might as well have flipped a switch. Sheet white, with eyes as wide as saucers, he seemed to fold in on himself as he stammered a placating explanation.

“I… Um… He… Katsu, I mean, would come out, um, and his ears would… would…”

2-D made a rearing-back gesture and motioned with his hands to indicate ears that had gone flat.

_Feel like a big man now, Russ?_ The thoughts poured like acid into Russel’s brain. _Cat’s got body language. Language is language. The cat fucking_ told _him, you dig?_

How was I supposed to know?

_How were you not? You_ know _D expresses himself differently than you. You could’ve tried thinking it through. Did you get shit on for your vocabulary when you got dumped out of your fancy-ass school and onto the streets of Brooklyn? D finally finds some place he can feel happy and relaxed and you come down on him because you can’t be bothered to rub two brain cells together._

He takes worse from Murdoc.

_Yeah, sure. From Murdoc. Who should be a unique entity, escaped from the goddamned pit. What’s he supposed to do if you become Murdoc too?_

“… and then, his tail… his tail would—“

“It’s all right, D,” Russel said, and 2-D paused mid-gesture, opening and closing his hands nervously. “I get it. It’s all right. Katsu told you with his body language. I get it.”

2-D nodded, twisting his fingers together.

“I… I try, but ever’one… ever’one always…”

Everyone. Always.

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Russel told him. “That’s why I should have understood. I’ve just been tired lately and took it out on you. That’s wrong. I’m sorry.”

Russel thought 2-D seemed more wary of his apology than his annoyance.

_And why not? Plenty of people get annoyed, but no one ever apologizes._

Russel tended to shy away from physical contact. It was not that he disliked it so much as it was the one aspect of his privacy that he could control. After decades of spirits and shades using his head as their personal playground, he clung to what space he could get. 2-D, however, as respectful as he might be of Russel’s space, was very tactile. To make his apology stick, Russel wrapped his arm around 2-D’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze. The effect was not dramatic, but he could feel 2-D loosen up under his touch.

“Is it hard?” 2-D said after a moment. “Seeing things no one else does?”

“Sometimes,” Russel admitted. “I don’t see that many things other people don’t. Mostly it’s stuff that gets into my head. That’s what makes it hard. Even the things no one sees can be felt sometimes. No one feels the stuff in your head. And you can’t describe it, so good luck gettin’ anyone to listen.”

“Yeah,” 2-D sighed and sat quietly a moment before adding, “I left a bottle of your stuff inna fridge if you need it.”

“I found it,” Russel assured him. “Took care of some crap in the hall closet.”

2-D nodded, accepting the statement at face value. Russel could never tell whether 2-D believed in the things he saw or was humouring him.

“I sprayed the fridge,” 2-D said, answering his question. “There’s bad things there. Not ‘Dana’s apartment’ bad. Not things I can see. But bad things. I sprayed all the edges inside and left the bottle there, like a warning. I meant to take it out and forgot.”

“That’s… It’s fine, man,” Russel said.

_And there you go. You never know what people are seein’, thinkin’, or feelin’. You ever think about bringin’ him in on the things you go through?_

He’s not a psychiatrist.

_You ever think of just talkin’ to him as a friend? Don’t tell me you can’t use a few of those. Made up voices don’t count._

I got friends.

Which was not entirely true. Russel knew a lot of people, but he wouldn’t tell them about the tendrils in the closet. Hell, he wouldn’t even mention Del to most of them.

“There’s another bottle inna bathroom ‘cause the tentacles were inna toilet,” 2-D continued. “I know the bottles don’t work so good for those, but I din’t have anything else an’ I needed the loo. I think Noodle pays ‘em to fuck with Murdoc, but they dun know one arse from the next. I’mma have to start bringin’ Jelly Babies with me ever’where.”

Russel laughed at the image.

“I’s not funny!” 2-D protested, but he grinned all the same. “Except I guess it kinda is.”

“I’ll make a toilet bomb,” Russel promised. “Run it through the pipes. Although we should probably get Noodle to lay down some ground rules. She can send them through the vents in his room if she wants to harass Murdoc. Let the rest of us get on with things.” He pondered this. “Although, if we all start carrying Jelly Babies and don’t tell him, we could have some fun with that before she does.”

2-D snorted laughter at that, closed-mouthed and crooning, as if afraid to be too loud.

“A’s fine by me,” he said, “but it might be better to have the toilets free. I’ll forget in the middle of the night.”

“Good point,” Russel agreed. “We’ll flush ‘em out then. No pun intended.”

2-D nodded, and then grew quiet.

“I was… I was gonna have a wash and go to the pub for some food an’ a pint,” he said, creeping up on the topic as though hunting a rare and precious butterfly. “You… You wanna come?”

_Now’s your chance._

For what?

_To make a connection._

I don’t know. D’s kinda… hard to read.

_He’s asking you to join him for a pint. How hard is that?_

He talks to plants.

_You talk to the ghost of a ghost. Who are you to judge?_

“I invited, so I can pay, if you like,” 2-D added. He sounded embarrassed to have not thought of it sooner.

“D, do I look like a man who needs his meals bought for him?” Russel sighed.

“Well, if you’re savin’ up for something. I dunno,” 2-D said. “Besides, what else would I spend mine on?”

He had a point, Russel supposed. As far as he knew, 2-D owned nothing he had paid money for within the last several years. He’d retrieved his keyboards from storage or repaired broken ones he found. His furniture was made of discarded pieces, refitted, refurbished, reclaimed. If he’d paid money for books, it was pocket change, the selection culled from thrift shops and library sales. He had repaired an old typewriter and possibly paid for paper, but Russel wasn’t even certain about that. Everything about 2-D was worn out, patched up, and ultimately disposable.

“Sure, I’ll go,” Russel said, patting him on the back, “but I’m paying my own way. I get uncomfortable when other people try to pay for me, you know?”

2-D nodded and Russel didn’t know if he really understood or was simply being agreeable, but he looked so pleased that Russel supposed it didn’t matter.

“I’m just gonna have a quick shower and change,” 2-D told him. “Won’t be a minute, a’right?”

“That’s fine,” Russel told him. “Take your time.”

_Was that so hard?_

His thoughts, in his voice, and yet not in his voice.

Russel finished his drink as 2-D disappeared into the house, gave it a minute or two, and then followed, rinsing his glass and leaving it in the sink.

“What’ll I talk about?” he mused once he heard the shower running.

_Anything you want._

“Yeah, but what’ll I _say_?”

_Anything you need to. It’s not a date, man. It’s D. No matter how long it’s been, it’s still D._

Russel supposed that was so. And D knew Del. Knew about him, at any rate. If memories wanted to be shared, he’d be the one to understand. More so even than Noodle, who tried to be understanding, but was not haunted. Not like he was. 2-D's ghosts were nothing like his, but Russel thought he had much better grasp of what it felt like to hear echoes of the past.

He needn’t start with that, of course. He was itching to do something with his hands and had thoughts regarding new sound equipment. He could build stuff on his own, of course, but 2-D was good at fiddling with electronics, and the things he could do with recycled parts…

Russel’s thoughts were interrupted by the rattling of the silverware drawer as it inched open and a single tentacle wormed its way out.

He grabbed the spray bottle from the counter, spritzed the thing until it withdrew in annoyance, and slammed the drawer shut.

“Fucking bullshit, man. That’s what this is,” he muttered under his breath.

_Too fucking right._


End file.
